


Always Play It in the Key of G-Demolished

by Soquilii9



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, Consequences, Culmination, End Result, Gen, Ramification, Reaction, Repercussion, Reverberations, Upshot, conclusion, effect, outcome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-18
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2020-09-02 05:16:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20270581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soquilii9/pseuds/Soquilii9
Summary: Angela’s father is back.....................and he is NOT happy.





	Always Play It in the Key of G-Demolished

The forensics platform chirped repeatedly as Dr. Temperance Brennan, two new interns and Angela Montenegro all stepped onto the platform almost simultaneously. Dr. Camille Saroyan, already present and evaluating a new case on the forensics table, looked up at each of them approvingly as everyone immediately got down to business. 

After a few minutes, she looked up again, casting another quick glance around. Someone was missing. Someone vital. Someone who had been a pain in the ass lately but whose knowledge was vast as well as necessary.

Dr. Jack Hodgins.

Cam addressed Jack’s wife. ‘Angie?’

Angela looked up from her camera, revealing dark circles under her eyes. Suspiciously shiny lines streaked her cheeks but her eye makeup was pristine; she must have touched it up after crying. She had a right to cry these days.

‘Yeah,’ she answered listlessly, as if she knew what the question would be.

‘Where’s Dr. Hodgins?’ Cam asked, gently.

Angie hesitated. She looked from Cam to her best friend, Temperance Brennan, and back to Cam.

‘I… ‘

‘Angela... are you all right?’ Temperance asked with concern.

‘I’m… I’m fine… I…’ Angela stumbled over her words, shaking her head. She cleared her throat. ‘I don’t _ know _where Hodgins is. He didn’t come home last night.’

**~ ~ ~**

Jack Hodgins groaned involuntarily. Sweat poured down his face. The skin was chafed; irritated from raising his shoulder to blot his forehead and cheeks with his shirt. Rivulets made their way ticklingly down his back; the sensation stopping just below his waistline, a cruel reminder of his current condition - as if the wheels raising blisters on his palms weren’t enough. The country road turned and twisted over gently rolling hills. He could coast a little on the downside of the hills but he had to be careful not to lose control by going too fast. The only reliable brake was his hands on the hot steel rims. The last thing he needed was to crash-land on sizzling black asphalt and have to crawl off of it on his elbows, leaving bloodied bits of skin behind. That is, if he didn’t crack his skull open, spilling his fractured brain, pulling his eyes from their sockets in a river of blood and spinal fluid... _I’ve seen too much on forensics tables_, he thought. _Details I don’t need to think about right now_. Dammit, it was too hot to be doing this -- to be trying to make it back from from -- wherever in the hell he was trying to make it _back_ from. His only salvation was a bottle of water. One bottle of water. If the old man hadn't taken his phone, he’d be able to call Angela, upset though she had been the previous night, to ask her meekly to come get him.

The dilapidated old gas station, abandoned some forty years ago, where the old man had left him, was now about five miles back on the two-lane country road that wound its meandering way through thick forest somewhere in the next county. The morning hadn’t been too bad but the sun was now right overhead. The shade had vanished. The heat was literally pounding down on him; no, that pounding came from within; it was his own heart. A small part of his mind was surreptitiously wishing for a heart attack. The old bastard would be charged with murder. Except how could he point the finger at him? He had nothing with which to record a dying declaration unless he bit into his finger for blood to write on his jeans. And they were black. Cam would know it was blood but wouldn't check to see if she could read it! He wouldn't be so damned hot if he had decided to wear khaki. Black had been his color lately; it suited his mood. It wasn't so good for a stroll, if that's what you could call this ordeal, in the sun.

The old man had picked him up effortlessly and set him down in his chair. He removed Jack’s wallet and phone after which he wheeled the chair onto the cracked driveway of the old gas station. He tucked a cold bottle of water beside Jack’s nerveless leg. 

‘I’m leavin’ you here now,’ he’d said, matter-of-factly. ‘Best get started if you want to go back home. It’ll take you a while. Think about what I’ve said, Jack.’ 

With that, the old man slid into the seat of the sleek, black CadZZilla, revved the engine and roared out of sight. 

Jack wanted to spit at him but he figured he’d better hold onto as much fluid as he could. _ It’ll take you a while _ , the old man had said. Talk about understatement. _ ‘It’ll take you a while.’ _ The old son of a bitch. He deliberately set out to kill me at last. I know who he is now. Oh, yes. He’s the Angel of Death who drives the bus to hell. _ ‘The Driver himself seemed full of light and he used only one hand to drive with… he had a look of authority and seemed intent on carrying out his job…’ _Jack had attained the Fifth Circle of Hell and was racing toward the Seventh. 

Once the powerful engine's roar had faded and Jack was certain the old man wasn't just playing some cruel joke on him - when he realized this was for real - Jack had screamed obscenities to the skies. He pounded on the armrests of his wheelchair, reached down and snagged a good-sized rock and threw it through what was left of the glass in the old building. He succeeded in frightening a squirrel and scattering some birds. That was all. 

_The insufferable bastard. If I had my legs I’d take great pleasure in kicking him to death_. Jack slumped in his chair, exhausted. There was plenty of anger left but for the moment he was too tired to call it forth. It lurked somewhere beneath, ready to be called upon when his strength came back. For now, he was defeated.

After a few minutes, he wearily wheeled himself over the rocky, broken concrete back to the smooth, two-lane blacktop and turned left, following the tire marks left by the CadZZilla. Not knowing what the old man was up to, he had unwisely paid no attention to the route they had taken. Unwise, because he'd been in similar situations before, but the old man had gotten him drunk or slipped him a roofie or a mickey or something. There was no excuse for being clear-headed while he was taken to some godforsaken hell-hole and dropped off. He should have paid attention. The old man had talked his ear off all the way and he hadn't so much as turned to acknowledge him. He'd just stared out the window in a daze. But this was the road they came in on and surely he’d find a gas station further up. An _operating_ gas station, he amended. There was always a gas station. Maybe he could borrow their phone. 

_ Don’t panic, Jack _ , he thought, as sweat dripped from his brow. _ You should have seen this coming. It’s your own fault. Don’t you know by now not to mess with a Texan? _

**~ ~ ~**

Not one single car since he started out this morning! Not. One. Where in hell had the old man found this godforsaken road to nowhere? There had been no traffic at all; no big rigs, no road repair trucks; no motorcycle gangs; no cops; no student drivers; _nothing. _ Jack doggedly pushed the wheels ever forward; steadily draining the only fuel he had, which was anger. At the forefront of his mind was the question, _how had the old man known_? How had he known he and Angela were having such serious problems? How had he known what an ass his son-in-law had become; how cruel he was treating Angie? Had Angie called him to complain? That wasn’t like her. What about Dr. Brennan? Was she trying, in her inordinately clumsy way, to help by calling Angie's father? Where in hell did she get the number? Did she ask Booth to tail him? Or had somebody at the Jeffersonian ratted him out? Those last theories seemed unlikely. If no one had called to tell him what was going on, had he somehow planted bugs or hidden cameras in Angela’s office? In the house, perhaps? In their very bedroom?!? Anything was possible - he wouldn’t put much past his devious father-in-law. Old rusty moss-face oughta work for the fucking C.I.A.

Trying to work out conspiracy theories was useless. Tiring. He had to distract himself with something else. A memory stirred, calling up the first time he met the old man. He let the memory play in his mind like a movie, a much-needed distraction from the pain he was in; to keep from thinking about Angie and how much he suddenly wanted her; to keep from speculating that if he didn’t make it out of here, Michael Vincent would have to grow up without a father. His mind distracted him while his arms pumped steadily, driving the wheelchair forward.

The old man had been surprisingly congenial when they first met: 

****‘Hey,’ he’d said loudly, to be heard over a fine blues riff. Then with his voice, he’d imitated a guitar sound like a fifteen-year-old. Embarrassed him to even think about it now. But Angie….. she was worth the fear and the shaking and the fight-or-flight response he’d felt that first meeting and every one afterward. 

Eyes unseen behind dark glasses peered up at him. The deep voice asked, at once off-hand yet threatening, ‘Can I help you?’

Trying not to wet his pants, he said, ‘I'm Jack Hodgins.’

The glasses came off and the deep voice spoke again, more softly. There was a trace of a smile. ‘You seem okay to me so far.’

Still, with that long reddish beard and the bandana beneath whatever kind of cap that was, he looked like Santa from Hades.

‘Well, l-I suddenly realized….. my best man said….. speeches at the wedding….. You know about the wedding?’

‘Oh, yes. It's no coincidence I'm here.’

At the moment the old man sounded more like a hit man than a future father-in-law. Jack swallowed hard.

‘Well, it occurred to me that you might have a traditional..... Er... you're Texan..... and I mean, _ really Texan ..._.. guitars-and-hot-rods Texan, so..... I figured I should ask you for your daughter's hand in marriage. As a sign of respect.’

‘You're making a huge mistake, son.’

_ A mistake?! _ ‘Marrying Angela?’ he asked.

‘No. If Angie finds out that a man..... _ you ..._.. asked another man..... _ me ..._.. for her hand, or any of her other fine parts, _ horrible _ complications will ensue.’

Jack breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I didn't think of that.’

‘You could get us _ both _ killed.’

‘O_kay _. Good advice.’

A firm handshake between the two men made it all right. Jack relaxed. ‘You got any more?’

‘Always play it in the key of G-Demolished.’

Sounding for a moment like Dr. Brennan, Jack said, ‘I... don't know what that means.’

‘Well, if you do, you do. If you don't, you don't. Forget it.’ The glasses were replaced over a face Jack still couldn’t completely read. He turned to go as the music started back up.

Suddenly, he halted in his tracks as Angela’s Dad called him back. _ ‘Hodgins.’ _

Jack turned to look at him; the old man let the last fine blues notes fade before he spoke.

‘I've got cars and I've got guitars..... and I got guns.’ He turned to look at Hodgins, inscrutable eyes well-hidden behind the dark glasses. Intimidating. Frightening.

Jack waited for what he was about to say.

‘You treat my little girl right, you'll only see the business end of the cars and guitars.’

Jack nodded. As the music started back up he faded out the door, glancing back once at the old man to make sure the exchange had really just happened.

He should have taken the old man more seriously.

**~ ~ ~**

Now here it was, nearly ten years later. Through the years Hodgins and his father-in-law had developed a pretty good relationship, or so he thought. The old man had filled the role of Grandpa nicely and except for tangling with Hodgins over his grandson’s name, had been downright cordial to his son-in-law. Of course, Hodgins still sported the two tattoos and a few splotchy scars caused by the terrific sunburn he got lying in the desert -- reminders of the times things weren’t going so well between them -- but by and large, it was all good. Lately Hodgins and Angela hadn’t seen that much of her Dad. He’d been touring with his blues band. Maybe he just figured the little family didn’t need him hovering. Helicopter father he wasn't. Only except if he got wind that something was wrong with Angela... 

Several years had gone by; life for Hodgins, Angela and little Michael Vincent had been a dream come true, despite the loss of their fortune. That could have been restored, thanks to Angie, but Hodgins refused it. They were happy as they were.

Then disaster struck.

While Agent Aubrey had saved Jack Hodgins’ life, the explosion had robbed Jack of the use of his legs.

At first there was hope; it wasn’t complete transection of the cord; he could come back. He _ would _ come back. His determination knew no bounds, but after months of effort, his doctor had dashed his hopes. His willpower waxed and waned. It became harder to cope. Then Cam betrayed his trust by demanding he stop work - work that now had become so vitally important to him, that which had always defined him and that which he still, thankfully, was capable of doing. He begged her not to do that to him. He _begged_ her, but she just yanked it away. Ordered him out. Made him feel so inadequate. Useless. After that, he sank into a depression so profound as to be just short of suicide. He never felt the same about Cam after that. 

Things got real. Jack started taking it out on everyone as if to punish _ them _ , especially Angie. ‘Always play it in the key of G-Demolished.’ the old man had said. Well, Jack wasn’t a musician but he knew damned well what _ demolished _ meant. Just tack on an _ OD _ after the _ G _ . He understood at last that he was now forced to play each day in the key of God-Demolished, for that was exactly what he felt God had done: demolished him. Felt damned good to lash out at people, even those who cherished him. Felt _ damned _ good; he got great satisfaction out of it. His old acerbic temperament rose to the fore; like Hyde took over and completely destroyed Jekyll. No rubber band around his wrist could begin to tame the vicious, hate-filled, spiteful misanthrope he had now become. 

**~ ~ ~**

‘You ready to go home?’ Angie asked.

‘Yes, but not with you.’

_Had she really heard him say that? _ ‘Okay, look, if this is about the sex dream I had, then I think that we…’

‘This has nothing to do with your _ dream _, Angela.’ Jack handed Angie a thick folder.

‘What is _ this _?’ she asked, apprehensively.

‘That's everything. It's all my money; property, and it's all yours.’

**_What?_ ** ‘Whoa, wait, um, I'm sorry… I... this feels like, um, are you trying to…’

'We're broken. And it's my fault, because I am miserable. And what's worse is I'm making_ you _ miserable.’

'So ** _change_ ** _ !’ _

_Did she really think it was that easy? _ ** _*_ ** ** _Poof_ ** ** _*_ ** _ and I’m all fixed? _ He stared at her.

‘I know that this is painful for you,’ she continued, trying to keep the tears out of her voice, ‘and I know that you think that I couldn't _ possibly _ understand what it's like. But this is _ life _ . It's _ hard _ , and it is _ painful _ , and it is _ every day _ . But we _ fight _ . We fight _ together.’ _

He stared at her, stonefaced. ‘This is my decision.’

‘No, this is a_ coward's _ decision. I am _ not _ letting you make it. I don't _ care _ about any of the stuff in this folder! I need _ you _.’

She dropped the folder in his lap.

**~ ~ ~**

_See you at home! _ Angie’s last, choked words echoed in his mind even after she stalked out. He was alone in the building. Unsure of what to do next, Jack slowly rolled out of his office, down the hall toward the front entrance. A shadowy figure was backlighted against the hallway right outside the security doors. Curious, Jack pushed forward a little faster to see who it was. Then his heart sank. The silhouette looked more familiar the closer he got. The cap; the beard… _ the old man _ . The old man _ knew . S__o? He knows, _ Jack thought, shrugging his shoulders. _ Who the fuck cares _. He scanned his card, rolled through the automatic doors toward his father-in-law and brazenly braked just inches from the old man’s boots. God, he hated having to look up at the old bastard!! 

‘Jack.’ The old man nodded at him and unfolded his arms. ‘Follow me, son. We need to have a talk.’

Jack was adjusting his seat belt as the old man folded the chair, tipped the driver's seat forward and stashed it in the back seat of the CadZZilla; the old man's favorite hot rod. He'd had it custom made from a 1948 Cadillac Series 62 Sedanette. The chair barely fit. Well, he didn't exactly have the car made to accommodate one... The old man shook his head sadly, contemplating the conveyance his son-in-law must now use. Still - he wasn’t tied to a bed and a respirator, so there was that. There. was. that. Now on to business.

The old man slid into the seat and shot an intimidating look at Hodgins, surprised that he didn’t get a response. Jack seemed closed off from the world. He simply sat staring out the opposite window. He refused to meet his father-in-law's eyes.

‘You know why I’m here, don’t you?’

Jack turned to him with a cold, hard stare. ‘Look, we’ve been down this road before, so why don’t you just do to me whatever it is you have in mind to do to me and let’s get this over with.’

‘Well,' the old man drawled, 'I really hadn’t thought that far ahead, son. But you’ve given me an idea.’

Jack gripped the seatbelt across his chest for all he was worth to keep from toppling as the car roared into the night.

**~ ~ ~**

The sun had crossed the apex of its trajectory but the heat remained. Jack found himself wishing he had an odometer built into the wheelchair. How many miles had he gone? That would give him some sense of accomplishment. That plus a battery and joystick... but then he’d probably run the battery down and the damn thing would be too heavy to wheel manually. No way to win even with wishful thinking.

The old bastard had literally left him to die. There was no other way to find meaning to this. Still, he hadn’t suffered a full chest tattoo or a penile piercing or tongue-splitting or some other body modification. So there was that.

He’d been rationing his water carefully but it was steadily inching down the inside of the bottle. Still, not a single car. What _was_ this, the Road to Perdition?! 

The forest suddenly ended as cleanly as if some gigantic logger had swept all the trees away. From here to the horizon was a panorama of farmland. The afternoon sun was free to zap Jack with the fullness of its dying but still hot rays. Jack stopped for a moment, wishing there was just a telephone pole’s worth of shade to get behind. The cultivated fields stretched as far as the eye could see. Farmland. He didn’t remember passing farmland! A potato field, from the looks of it… kale to the right… garlic, cabbage over there on the left..... People had to have planted all this, so where in hell were they? Where did they live? Why couldn't there have been a farmhouse? Maybe a shed or a barn, or at least a fucking _outhouse_?!?

Jack was grateful to have retained some bladder control. He'd strengthened the muscles over the months and was not dependent on ostomy supplies. Now, however, he'd been forced to relieve himself out in the open, on the road, trying not to wet himself and doing it anyway. That tore it. He bowed his head and gave himself up to a few minutes of bawling like a baby. In this one instance he was glad to be alone; what an embarrassment if someone were to see him or worse, offer to stop and help! He wiped his eyes and nose on his saturated sleeves. He was losing too much water to cry. He had one more sip in the bottle and that would be that. He was going to die out here. That’s all there was to it - the old man had sentenced him to death for hurting Angie. And he _had_ hurt her, _badly_, he knew that; he just couldn't seem to help it. Maybe he deserved this. He thought back to all the times he had cut Angie to the quick; snapped at Agent Booth, the interns, Brennan, Cam, the security guards, even the janitor. He had hurt and scorned and insulted everyone; made everyone miserable because they felt sorry for him, couldn't help him and feared giving as good as they got right back at him. He had created a _ hostile work environment _, as they called it in the seminars. Life had been good to him. How had it turned so sour?

What was important to him now? What mattered? What was there left to live for?

Three things came to the forefront of his mind. His work. Angela. His son. He once had literally owned the Jeffersonian yet preferred to be Jack-the-Bug-Guy, working behind the scenes. Three doctorates to get where he was! Yet he neither wanted nor needed accolades. His work was all-encompassing. That is, until he met Angela. Even then, it took several years before he realized how caught in her web he was. _Over the moon. Stupid in love with her_. That’s how he had once described his feelings to Brennan. A feeling stronger than he was; where had that gone, exactly? Why had he let it slip away? They had a son. What would Michael Vincent think once he got big enough to realize how his father was treating his mother? What would he think of him if he knew his father just gave up and died out here, without making an effort? 

What kind of example was he setting? This wouldn't do.

He _wasn’t_ going to die out here. _Damned_ if he was going to die out here! He wasn't going to let that old motherfucking, blues-warping, son of a bitch _win!! _He was going home - to Angie, to his son. They meant more to him than... than even _Dryococelus australis!!_

Jack shook himself, chugged the last of the water and defiantly flung the bottle into the ditch. He grabbed the still-hot rims of the wheels and shoved the wheelchair forward. He had to get back to Angela. Back to Michael Vincent. Back to work; back to his life. He’d been a fool; he had to find a way to make it up to everyone. _ Everyone._

**~ ~ ~**

_Was that the roar of an engine he heard? Surely not. He was hallucinating. That's what it was. He'd gone to sleep and was dreaming a car into existence. That was it. _ Hodgins slipped back into a deep sleep that, given a few more hours, would have become unconsciousness. Seriously dehydrated, he sat motionless, slumped in his chair. He didn't hear the door to the car close or the boots clumping toward him. He didn't feel the fingers test his pulse, finding it strong and steady, a little fast, but hydration would iron that out. The old man lifted Hodgins easily and placed him on the front seat. After buckling him in, he folded the chair and stuffed it into the back. 

‘Been right behind you the whole time,’ said the old man, ‘far enough back so you wouldn’t see or hear me. Figured you had some thinking to do. I do believe you’ve come to a conclusion, haven't you, son?’

Jack, dead to the world, didn’t answer.

‘Let’s get you cleaned up and watered down and fed and I think you’ll be more in a frame of mind to come to your senses and go home to your wife.’ 

The old man gunned the engine and drove away.

**~ ~ ~**

Jack woke up in the old man’s apartment, lying on the couch. Initially disoriented, he rubbed his face and dug his fists into his eyes. The vent above his head was sending down a cool, sweet flow of air over him. He pushed himself to a sitting position with his legs stretched out in front of him. Where was he? Was he dreaming again? No, there was a coffee table pushed close, on which rested a tray containing a sandwich, a cold beer and a cold bottle of water. He immediately went for the beer. This was no dream, it was a beautiful bottle of beer, icy and delicious. Jack chugged it.

‘Not really good for your kidneys, son,’ said a deep voice behind him. ‘But I allowed you _one_. Figured you deserved it.’

_'You.'_ Jack swiveled his head and stared at his father-in-law, standing just behind the couch. The unreadable eyes were again hidden behind dark glasses. Jack would've throttled the old man if he could've reached him..... or embraced him. He wasn't sure which. '_You_ did this to me. _Why?!_ _To teach me another lesson?!_' 

'What do _you_ think, son?'

'I think you're _insane_. I think you're absolutely the most _insane_ person I've ever met in my life. I think you're --'

The old man nodded sagely. 'I get the general idea. Let me make a suggestion. You'll feel better when you eat something. You eat that sandwich; if you want another one I'll make you another one. You've had your beer, now drink the water.'

Jack took a deep breath. Torn between anger and relief, he decided to cooperate. After he downed the bottle of water, he started in on the sandwich. He polished it off in four bites.

'Looks like you'll want another one.' The old man strolled into the kitchen.

Jack shifted his position on the couch and noticed that his attire was nothing but a sheet. He called after the old man. ‘Did you _ undress _ me?!’

The old man's voice echoed from the kitchen. ‘Couldn’t have you going back home dirty and smelling the way you did. Your things are in the dryer.’

He came back presently, with another sandwich, a slice of pie, another bottle of water and a beer for himself on the tray. He set them down and took a seat across from Jack. ‘Remember what I told you nine years ago? Well, instead of the business end of a gun, you got lucky. You drew the business end of the car. Figured it was healthier that way. I wanted my grandson to have his dad.’

Jack reached for the water and drained it. He ate the second sandwich slower, with relish. Nothing had ever tasted so good.

‘It's been hard for you. You’ve been through enough, Jack. Just my way of giving you something to think about.’

Jack nodded sheepishly. ‘Where's Angie? She said she’d meet me at home last night and I didn't show up. Does she know where I am?’

‘I didn't call her. She didn't call me, either, if you're wondering.' He checked his watch. 'She should be leaving work soon. Hated to worry her, but... it ended well. Tell you what you do. I drop you off at home… once you’re dressed… you don’t say a word to Angie about any of this. That's my price. You find wherever in the house she is; you roll up to her; you take her hand and you smile at her. Then you make it right with her.’

The old man stared at his son-in-law. ‘Have we got a deal, Jack?’

Jack Hodgins nodded. ‘We have a deal - sir.’

**~ ~ ~**

Jack heard Angie sobbing the minute he came in the front door. He wheeled up to the bedroom door. She was on the bed, making it shake with her sobs. He hesitated before entering the room, then slowly rolled the chair around the bed to face her. He stopped the chair and put his still-blistered hands in his lap. She opened her eyes to look at him and he reached over to take her hand in his, entwining his fingers in hers. He looked at her with his heart in his eyes and she smiled at him.

They would be okay. 

They had to be.

The next time, the old man would surely kill him.

The End

**Author's Note:**

> In all my research I could not find a character's name for Angela’s father, played by Billy Gibbons -- except ‘Sarge’ via IMDB -- and I was not able to find that particular reference in the series itself. Instead of constantly calling him ‘Angela’s father,’ I refer to him as ‘the old man’ -- which irks me somehow -- as I am two years older than Billy. :P  
*****  
‘The Driver himself seemed full of light and he used only one hand to drive with… he had a look of authority and seemed intent on carrying out his job…’  
\- C. S. Lewis: 'The Great Divorce'  
*****  
The rarest insect in the world: Dryococelus australis (The tree lobster)  
*****  
As to what the old man said to Jack Hodgins, I leave that to speculation. Whether it was words in deep, forboding, Texas-accented tones -- or the torturous trip in the wheelchair -- Jack Hodgins was literally scared straight. I did this for Angela. She deserved better treatment.


End file.
